Higher System
by Takira
Summary: Inside the mind of a child at his parents' funeral--not quite what you'd expect to find.


* * *

"Just look at the poor little thing..."

"...being so brave about it..."

"...just makes you want to cry, what he's gone through these past days, and still so strong..."

Note to self: children are not, in fact, deaf--do not give in to the evident tendency to forget this with age. In the meantime...make the most of it.

They take their places behind and around me, a taffeta maze rustling in a soft, constant rush of half-breathed murmurs--sympathies, each duly and individually and uniquely acknoweldged. Well, they wouldn't be here for any reason but the wish to be noticed; I notice them, each of them, and they feel appreciated, and turn their murmuring toward each other, as though I could not hear.

"...must have heard the shots, he already knew when they came to tell him..."

"...said he'd expected it, just looking so...so unshakeable, just amazing..."

"...don't think it's really sunk in yet, is all, the poor dear."

Addendum: the age-old credo that wisdom comes with age is evidently beginning to fail in its own antiquity. They are so like children, in some ways--I think father knew. I seem to recall it coming up in our annual conversation, the nature of man. I do believe he was drunk; one simply doesn't choose such topics for family discussion until after the offspring has come into his own.

Of course, now that I've arrived, he's hardly in any position to impart his age-born knowledge upon me...the fact that he did so beforehand is mere luck, not foresight. Foresight he plainly lacked, or there would not be so many black-robed figureheads here today. It's a lovely opportunity but for the fact that they can't look beyond the present topic, and in any case it gives me a chance to make impressions. Father didn't allow me to meet with them personally before, and first impressions are so important; I couldn't wait for this opportunity.

...and, in point of fact, I didn't. Isn't it funny how life works: so very predictable.

"So soon after the--"

"Shh, shh...don't speak of it here, it's not proper."

"All they have is each other, just look at them..."

Ah, yes. I glance at my young companion, standing so close beside me. He doesn't look at me...his eyes are fixed on the still-open grave, the closed casket, and even from this angle I can see the tears in a thick film beneath his lashes. He seems to be taking this very hard, considering his own experience, but I suppose his father never had a proper burial. He does seem rather caught up in the way things 'should be done', so I suppose that would be an unnerving memory for him, especially so recent.

I move my gloved hand just enough to squeeze his, and immediately he is looking at me, meeting my eyes with an expression that I find very interesting, if not entirely surprising: gratitude, trust...

...devotion...

I think I shall have to see that look on him again: it does lovely things to his eyes. His eyes are really the only part of him worth watching yet, but he shows promise to grow into a very beautiful man. I can wait, and I will simply look at his eyes for now.

"So strong, just like his father..."

"Yes, yes, so much like his father..."

"...he'd be so proud to see this..."

They must not be thinking about what they're saying. If father were here to see this and be proud, we wouldn't be gathered around his grave, now would we? Perhaps if only mother had been shot, but that would have meant a half-done job, and I can't stand to see things half-done.

I made that very clear to young Mr. Lowe, and he, dear man, respected my point of view; I shall have to keep him in mind for the future.

Oh, yes, there is a future--its existance is a given, but the substance of it has long been argued the realm of Fate. I have been investigating the subject in depth these past few years, and I am unconvinced of popular opinion. Chance would have eliminated our race long ago, and there must therefore be a reason for our perpetuity. Some argue an omnipotent and loving deity, but what excuse, then, for the misery so deeply ingrained in humanity? Man's greatest achievement is his beauty in both form and function, regardless of circumstance; it is an intricacy seemingly woven into the delicate spiral network of our genome...our design.

Perhaps it is as theologians argue, and a man is simply too complex to have crawled spontaneously from Darwin's evolutionary sludge. Perhaps there is--or was--a God...and perhaps we have outgrown our stifling Eden. Perhaps these bloodied histories are mankind's cramping struggles, beating against the bars of a system that is long done with us, disinterested.

Maybe God doesn't care for us anymore. If that be the case, I see no reason to mourn--and I see no reason to remain. Let us mold our own guidance, let us become our own creators, we, in such a dire need to control our lives that we take those of our fellows. Why do humans lust so after power? What drives them to ever-new accomplishments in every field, grasping at each hard-won scrap of information, desperately seeking the order inherent in any structure or process? Why this desire to manipulate, why the necessity of complete understanding?

We are creating a higher system.

The service concludes, and the guests shuffle to depart. Milliardo alone remains beside me, preoccupied, drowning in his sea of thoughts as I spare a last appraising look for my creator's grave. A gentle tug on the sometime-prince's hand is enough to stir him from his brewing nightmares, and I let him lead me away, noting detatchedly that the sakura tree I planted here three years past has left a stray petal on his jacket, and the effect is becoming. I tell him so, since he wishes me to say something, and the worry in his eyes intensifies.

"Treize..." he whispers, as though afraid of rousing the stone spirits of the grounds, "What are you going to do now?"

I look at him for a moment, then pat his hand and lead him back to the mansion, assuring him in confidential tones that I already know what I'm going to do. He doesn't know enough to question--or perhaps he knows enough not to. He follows me as he has since our first meeting, and asks nothing; for that, I decide to weave him into my work, my design. There is so much that is already taking place around us, and so much more to be done--God will neither assist nor interfere.

The future, for better or for worse, is being crafted by a few, very few members of humankind.

I shall be among them.

* * *


End file.
